


Scars

by Ginny_Potter



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Set in HBP with flashbacks, Spoilers, Spoilers for CoG, Summer 1899, old!Dumbledore thinks about the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 10:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17098568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: Albus Dumbledore has lived a long life. The end is near and the ghosts of his past come back hauting him. There are many kinds of scars and all of them trigger memories: one for every Deathly Hallow."Holding the Cloak in his hands, feeling the silky fabric on his fingertips… The sensation had been excruciating.Albus wanted to tell Gellert.Dumbledore knew that it was not going to happen.Neither Albus nor Gellert existed anymore. Nothing of that summer existed anymore. Just a fading weirdly-shaped scar on his left forearm and another angry one on his palm.His memories looked like dreams."





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> This story was prompted by Carola.
> 
> SPOILERS FOR FBCOG.
> 
> We were triggered by [ this backstage photo ](http://i68.tinypic.com/2z595ed.jpg) of Dumbledore in front of the Mirror of Erised.  
> I still have no explanation for it. Please feel free to tell me your opinion. I do not think that the explanation contained in this fanfiction could be even remotely be taken into consideration, it's a very fanfiction-y explanation.  
> Anyway.  
> I do not own any of this of course, I am just having fun.  
> English is not my first language so please, point out mistakes so I can improve.  
> I really hope you will enjoy it!

Scars

 

The heavy oak door closed with a soft sound, turning on its hinges. Dumbledore sighed, examining his blackened hand with distant eyes. He had no doubt that Severus would keep his word. It was almost funny that the Dark Lord’s most trusted servant was indeed Dumbledore’s greatest advantage.

The hand certainly didn’t look good. There was no chance that he could manage to hide it to Harry – or to anyone else. He sighed again. It hadn’t been hard to speak those words to Severus. It hadn’t been hard to plan his own death. It worked much better like this, if he could plan things. Thinking ahead had always been one of his greatest qualities. He could see things before things actually happened without being a Seer. It had its perks. He brought his left hand to his beard, caressing it slightly. So, he was ready, wasn’t he? He was ready to face death. He had time to process it – _Maybe a year_ , Snape had said – but still, the moment finally had come. His eyes lingered on the ring, motionless on the desk. It had fought back, it didn’t want to die, of course. The Stone was cracked but still beautiful: it was black like ebony and skilfully cut. He wondered if…

Dumbledore leaned, his left arm stretching in front of him, and the heavy brocade of his robe shifted. He stopped before he could get to the cursed object. On his left forearm, pale on his even paler complexion, a peculiarly shaped scar stood out. His heart missed a beat.

Slowly, reverently, he folded the sleeve to his elbow. The scar was still there, old and white against his wrinkled skin. He left out a shaky breath. He hadn’t been seeing it for almost a century. His gaze slowly moved between the scar and the ring: the curse must have been so powerful that it broke the disillusionment spell cast so long ago.

Dumbledore smiled bitterly. It was quite ironic, wasn’t it? The same symbol, a symbol that he hadn’t lingered on for many years suddenly reappeared twice in the same night: on the stone and on his arm. The Peverell coat of arms, had said old, crazy Marvolo, once, a long time ago. He knew better. They knew better.

“We knew better, Gellert,” Murmured old Dumbledore, tracing the shape of the triangle with an ugly, blackened finger “didn’t we?”

And as if he had pronounced a secret spell, as if he had brushed the silvery surface of the Pensieve, a violent memory overwhelmed him.

 

*

 

“The Cloak is not a priority.”

Albus lifted his gaze from the old parchment. He had been examining it for half an hour: it was written in thick, cursive runes; the abbreviations were particularly hard to decipher, and a huge dictionary was open underneath the ruined sheet.

Gellert was pacing, his twisty wand pecking regularly against his lips. He had been mostly silent for the time Albus had spent on his shabby piece of paper, measuring the room with calibrated steps.

“What do you mean? I reckon we need all the Hallows to succeed.”

“Indeed,” Gellert stopped and turned towards him, a frown reshaping his angelic features: he seemed so much older than his sixteen years old when he had that profoundly absorbed expression, “Indeed, my dear Albus, but we haven’t discussed the order in which we will acquire them. I believe the Cloak must be the last one.”

Albus licked his lips and laid his quill on an old piece of blotting paper: “We do are perfectly capable of casting disillusionment spells on ourselves.” He agreed, speaking slowly.

Gellert nodded in agreement, a knowing smile on his lips: “Precisely my point.”

“We are also perfecting the Invisibility Potion.” Albus went on, thoughtful, “You are right. I don’t really see why we should spend our time and energy in finding the Cloak before the Stone or even the Wand.”

Gellert’s smile widened and Albus knew what he was thinking because they were thinking the same thing. His chest filled with a warm feeling. Most of the time it was as if they could understand each other without opening their mouths. It was usually a matter of instants: a glance, a smile, a soft touch. It drove Aberforth mad. Albus enjoyed the furious look on his face right before he slammed his door behind his back or stormed outside a room when he and Gellert _worked their magic_ – that was how old Bathilda called their silent talking.

Gellert moved towards the desk, his index and middle fingers danced carelessly over the ancient stack of papers that they had borrowed from his aunt’s library. Albus pushed back the chair, his left knee moving to a more relaxed position. Gellert shifted so to arrange himself between Albus and the desk. His thigh brushed slightly against Albus’.

“Ignotus was a coward.” He declared lightly. “He hid all his life. How is that a life worth living? Hiding yourself some place remote, refusing to face your fears, your responsibilities, even your dark desires.”

Albus lifted the corner of his mouth and placed a hand on Gellert’s side. His thumb moved circularly over his prominent hipbone, over the soft linen of his shirt: “This is quite a Gryffindor thing to say.”

A flash of amusement crossed Gellert’s mismatched eyes: “You never… how do you call it? Sorting?” Albus nodded “You never sorted me before.”

Albus let his thumb slip below the fabric and smiled when he reached skin: “Do you think you would embody Gryffindor’s characteristics?”

Gellert’s right hand covered Albus’, stopping his movements. Albus wondered if he was distracting him. The thought alone was flattering: Gellert wasn’t easily distracted: “Tell me again how it is.”

“Bravery, daring, nerve and chivalry.” Albus recited, repeating the words of the Sorting Hat.

Gellert seemed to reflect on that, playing with his wand. Albus looked at his long fingers juggling the wooden stick and licked his lips. Suddenly, Gellert’s right hand abandoned Albus’ and pushed back his hair, entangling in his auburn locks. They looked at each other.

“I don’t think you are just that.” Gellert said slowly, “You are much more.”

Albus smiled: “Sorting is not perfect.”

Gellert hummed and his hand slowly brushed Albus’ cheekbone, then his chin, before falling down by his side: “Ignotus Peverell wasn’t a Gryffindor.” He declared. “I think I _could_ make a decent one, but...”

Albus chuckled and shook his head, interrupting him: “I cannot really see you sorted, Gellert, as much as I like thinking how great would have been to meet you before.”

Gellert’s smile softened and he sat on Albus’ lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Albus struggled to prevent himself from curling his arm around his waist.

“…but,” he continued “I’m afraid I would have been sorted into Slytherin.” He paused and Albus couldn’t help but thinking about the Sorting Hat last song: _Or perhaps in Slytherin you’ll make your real friends, those cunning folks use any means to achieve their ends._

“We would have been rivals.” Gellert added, “On opposite sides.”

Albus frowned: “I cannot see that happening.”

“Would you have been my friend if I were a Slytherin?”

The question was innocent enough, the tone casual, as if Gellert was asking him about the weather outside, but Albus knew Gellert, he knew that when he was not sure about something, when he felt insecure or when he wanted to have Albus’ approbation, his accent showed a bit more – it was a fleeting note, just a little harsher, just a little more German. He lazily caressed his wrist.

“We would have been marvellous, at Hogwarts. We would have competed for every prize, every house point. It would have been healthy competition though, I know as much. It would have been fair. We would have recognised since the first moment that we can be so much more together instead of alone. We are brilliant alone, mind me, but we are simply extraordinary together.”

Albus could feel Gellert’s heartbeat race, he could see that inflamed spark in his peculiar eyes. He leaned on and kissed him, slowly, deliberately.

They parted.

“I owe something to Ignotus Peverell.” Said Gellert and smiled when Albus looked at him quizzically. “I came to Godric’s Hollow because of him. I wouldn’t have met you if it wasn’t for his gravestone.”

Albus’ heart missed a beat. That would have been inconceivable. He grabbed his wand and pointed it towards the small stash of ink at the edge of his desk: “Vera verto.” He murmured. The two vials immediately turned into golden goblets full of pumpkin juice.

“Let us drink to the coward Ignotus Peverell, then.” He declared, lifting one and handing the other to Gellert.

He chuckled: “You are such a show-off, Albus.” He moved his wand absentmindedly and the juice transformed into a red beverage. He lifted his goblet: “To Ignotus.”

Albus imitated him, then rolled his eyes: “Wine, Gellert? And _I_ am the show-off.”

 

*

 

Grindelwald had never known that Dumbledore had found the Cloak, many years after their first conversation about it – there had been others, as the summer progressed and Ariana’s problematic future became more and more of an issue for the two of them.

When he had begun asking himself questions about James Potter’s mysterious ability to escape blame for his pranks, Dumbledore hadn’t really thought that the real Cloak of Invisibility could have had something to do with it. He had been genuinely impressed by James’ ability – and luck – for years before he discovered the truth. James himself had shown him the Cloak, he told him how it had been passed on from father to child in his family, a long-lived heirloom. He remembered asking James to borrow it, so to study it to find a way to protect him, Lily and baby Harry better. It had been a lie, in part. _There’s no harm in half-truths_ , Gellert would have said. Holding the Cloak in his hands, feeling the silky fabric on his fingertips… The sensation had been excruciating.

Albus wanted to tell Gellert.

Dumbledore knew that it was not going to happen.

Neither Albus nor Gellert existed anymore. Nothing of that summer existed anymore. Just a fading weirdly-shaped scar on his left forearm and another angry one on his palm.

His memories looked like dreams.

 

*

 

“You do not understand, Aberforth.”

Albus was losing his temper. He didn’t know how many times he had repeated the same sentence, but he was starting to feel his fingertips tingling with the desire of grabbing his wand and hex his brother with a well-placed _Oscausi_.

“Don’t I? Right, because I am the stupid one and you are the great and mighty Albus Dumbledore, winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, British Young Representative to the Wizengamot and Gold Medal for Ground-Breaking Contribution to the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo. Did I forget some other Merlin-damned prize, oh Your Royal Highness?”

Albus could feel the headache approach: “Aberforth, don’t provoke me.”

“Or else? You should ground me, shouldn’t you, Albus? You are the head of the family after all, aren’t you? Oh no! I am so sorry, I completely forgot that you want to find an imaginary Stone so to make our parents zombie-returning so you can run away with your _friend_ to conquer the world.”

Albus’ eyes blazed with anger. Instinctively, his fingers curled around his wand: “You had no right to read my mail. I suggest you stop talking now or you will realise how lenient I have been until now.”

Aberforth laugh was humourless: “Please, show me some Durmstrang dark hexes. I am sure you are a master of them by now.”

Albus studied his brother’s figure: it would have been so easy to hit him with a non-verbal spell. So, so easy. Aberforth wouldn’t have even noticed it, he wouldn’t have even managed to raise the wand he was grasping behind his back. He was so obvious. He was a decent fighter but had no grace nor technique, he was sloppy and clumsy. They had sparred before, at Hogwarts, when the only problem between them was Albus’ undoubted superiority.

“I’m going out.” He said instead and turned around to get to the door. It was late, his unfinished letter to Gellert was still open on the table. He had been writing it, feverishly, in the middle of the night, when he had heard Ariana’s pained moans. After an exasperated sigh, he had left the parchment on his desk and had checked on her. _Just a nightmare, it’s just a nightmare. Why didn’t you drink your sleeping potion, Ariana?_ It had been a long day. He had been at home because Ariana had thrown tantrum after tantrum since early morning. Of course, she was having nightmares. He had lost precious time making the damn sleeping potion so to avoid this: her having bad dreams, her suffering. And just as he had persuaded her to drink the concoction, Aberforth had stormed in the room, waving Albus’ letter to Gellert.

_The Stone would bring my parents back, so I wouldn’t be stuck here._

After that, Ariana had had another episode and Aberforth had been complaining and accusing and cursing him for the whole time as he tried to calm her down, as he tried to make her drink the bloody potion. He hadn’t stop bugging him even after she had fallen asleep.

“It’s three in the morning.” Said Aberforth flatly “And you don’t even want to answer me, don’t you? This, all of this, seems written by a crazy person, a crazy, cruel person, but I guess you have always been, haven’t you? You are just a selfish, self-centred pr–”

Aberforth’s mouth sealed shut as though he never had one.

Albus didn’t stop to see his first shocked then terrified expression.

It was raining outside, big wet summer drops that hit Albus as soon as he stepped on the muddy path that led to his house. He didn’t bother to whisper the enchantment for the umbrella spell. He just picked up the pace. He crossed the road and stumbled on a pointy rock. He swore, grasping the edge of a sharp fence so not to collapse. He felt the splinters cutting in the soft flesh of his palm. Albus ignored the pain. He was near. By the time he passed by the dark windows of the Potters’ cottage, he spotted the faint light of a candle at the first-floor window. Of course, Gellert was awake, he was waiting for his answer, his answer that laid on the kitchen table where Aberforth was probably still trying to find a counter-spell to his hex.

“Alohomora.”

The rusty gated opened. He stopped under the window and lifted his gaze. He couldn’t risk waking up Bathilda. He pointed his wand in the direction of the light and whispered: “Vermilious.” A jet of red sparks precipitated from the tip of his wand right where he wanted them; they arranged themselves in the shape of a hand, a hand that knocked against the glass. A second after, the shutters opened to reveal Gellert’s surprised face.

“Albus?” he mouthed, astonished.

Albus managed a feeble smile and a second after Gellert disappeared. As he moved towards the door, he spared a glance to his left hand, that was starting to swell, and it was red and inflamed where the splinters had penetrated. He grimaced.

The door opened.

“What are you doing here?”

It was difficult to surprise Gellert Grindelwald and Albus felt weirdly flattered by the fact that he was particularly skilled in doing it. Gellert ushered him inside, closing the door without making a noise before looking at him critically. He was literally dripping on his doorstep. Albus pointed the wand towards himself, a blast of warm magical air dried him up. Gellert sighed and lead him upstairs. As soon as he closed the bedroom door he asked again: “What are you doing here, Albus? It’s the middle of the night.” He made a gesture to invite him to sit on the bed.

Albus obliged, the mattress was firmer than his, he noticed: “Aberforth read the letter I was sending you.”

Gellert groaned: “Merlin, why does your brother have to be such an insufferable nosey parker?”

Albus couldn’t help but smile in awe. It was such a British expression to use. It sounded delightful on Gellert’s lips: “I reckon he feels left out. I was tending to Ariana, giving her a sleeping potion because she had a nightmare and he… I guess he entered my bedroom to call me and he found the letter.”

Gellert sighed and slumped beside him.

“It was private.”

Gellert lifted his eyebrows and Albus flushed and laughed.

“Not in _that_ sense.” He cleared his throat “It was about the Hallows. About the Stone.”

Gellert’s hand slipped in his absent-mindedly and Albus winced. Gellert stopped and looked down: “What happened to you hand?” he asked, first worried, then his expression changed into something darker “Did Aberforth…?”

“No.” Albus interrupted him “No, I slipped near the Potters’ cottage and I grasped a fence and it was quite splinter-y.”

Gellert brought his hand on his lap and sighed: “I am not an expert on healing charms – and that reminds me that we should practice them – but…” he pointed his wand to Albus’ palm and pronounced clearly: “Episkey.” The splinters disappeared. Looking quite happy with himself, Gellert went on: “Tergeo.” The dirt and mud vanished and Albus’ hand started looking much better. At that point, Gellert got up and rummaged inside his truck. When he sat back on the bed, he was holding a vial with the word ‘Dittany’ written in a regular handwriting. He applied the essence on Albus’ reddened wounds. “This should do.” He finally said, satisfied.

Albus was aware of the fact that he was smiling with a dumbstruck expression. Again.

“It doesn’t look like you need much practice.”

“Don’t flatter me, Dumbledore.” Gellert scolded him, but he was smiling back.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes.

“You were saying something about the Stone.”

Albus nodded: “I was writing to you about the Stone. It was more of a rant, actually, it’s probably better if you didn’t receive that nonsense. It has been a hard day and I just… I feel better now. I had a childish reaction. I should go back and see if Aberforth is alright.”

“Alright?”

Albus felt his cheeks warming up again: “I may have hexed him.”

Gellert looked genuinely surprised, and there was something else in his eyes, something more… mischievously pleased: “Well, I’d say he got it coming.”

Albus smiled weakly and tried to get up but Gellert grabbed his arm, stopping him: “Don’t go.” He said, “Stay here.”

Albus hesitated.

“You said Ariana took a sleeping potion. She’ll be fine till tomorrow. Also, hexes don’t last long. And I want to know about the letter. And the Stone. And your terrible day.”

Albus felt all of his self-control tumble down. He wanted to stay. He wanted to talk to Gellert about what he thought the Stone could do for him, for them, for their project. He wanted to tell him about his horrible day and Ariana’s episodes and Aberforth’s exhausting accusations and just get rid of some of the weight that burdened his shoulders. And Gellert was there and he wanted to listen, and he _cared_. His shoulders slumped: “You’ll be my undoing.”

Gellert smirked and pushed him to lay on his back: “I hope so. There’s no one else who measures up.”

 

*

 

Dumbledore was ashamed.

He remembered writing that letter, he remembered wanting his parents back so that he could be rid of that burden, so that he could stop being chained to his siblings, exiled in that awful village. He remembered wanting them back _just for that_. It wasn’t longing for his dead mother and father, it wasn’t filial love. It was just egoism. He did care for his parents, he wasn’t a monster, he respected them. It was just… It was a different time, a different relationship between parents and children. Almost a century after, Dumbledore knew that his motivations were wrong. He didn’t see it then. Gellert hadn’t seen it either. He had always had a cold relationship with his parents and he was an only child.

_He was free._ Dumbledore remembered thinking. _Free to experience his greatness._

A fumbling of feathers and Fawkes perched on his shoulder. Dumbledore smiled: “You didn’t know me then, Fawkes.”

The phoenix’s black eyes were pointed at the Hallows-shaped scar on his left arm. Dumbledore opened his hand where another scar, more jagged and partially confused between the lines of his palm, was. It was a morbid match. Fawkes looked sad.

“Yes. It seems like another life.”

A lightning bolt illuminated the room, it was heavily raining, like that night. The light coming from outside lengthened for an instant the shadow cast by the Elder wand, not far from the ring. Dumbledore sighed, and his gaze lingered on the apparently innocuous twig, before returning to his arm. It was there, forever carved in his skin.

Forever carved in his soul.

He touched the scar.

 

*

 

They were duelling. It was fast and exhilarating and challenging and Albus had rarely felt so alive. It was a beautiful day: the sun was shining, and it was pleasantly warm. They were on a narrow valley between two curvy hills. A creek had been carving its way in the soft dirt.

“Tarantallegra!”

Albus jumped to his left to avoid the red jet of light and his foot slipped inside the water. He swore but he was laughing.

“Rictumsempra!”

His spell missed, he hadn’t been casting it properly. He was too busy having fun.

“Come on, Albus, you are not even trying!”

Gellert was standing on a bigger rock, several feet afar. He sounded annoyed, but he was sporting an amused smile. The sun was behind him, painting a golden halo around his blond head. He was panting. Albus strengthened the grip on his wand and carefully extricated himself from the muddy stream.

They studied each other, then Albus moved his wrist so slightly that only someone like Gellert could notice it. And he did, one second before the spell hit him. He yelled: “Protego!” but the swiftness of Albus’ skill allowed his charm to slip underneath his shield and an invisible rope tangled itself around Gellert’s legs, dragging him towards the water. Albus lifted his arm, and Gellert fell. His eyes widened, half-expecting to impact against the shallow water but a second after he regained control: “Arresto momentum!” He stopped mid air, a palm or so from the water and managed to turn himself on one side before collapsing and drenching his clothes. Albus’ grabbed his wand with both hands, pulling like he was fishing a particular hard catch. But Gellert had understood the trick. He pointed his wand in the direction in which the rope would have been if it had been visible: “Diffindo!”

Albus stumbled, losing his balance because of his own energy and risking sinking in the stream as well.

“Non-verbal. Nice touch, Dumbledore.”

“You asked me not to play around.”

They were both smirking.

Gellert stood up and Albus blinked repeatedly when he noticed how the thin white cotton shirt he was wearing clang to his torso.

It was a hot day.

Gellert noticed and took advantage of his temporary distraction: “Incarceramus.”

Albus’s arms went limp and he barely managed to maintain the hold on his wand. He growled when he felt the chains wind up his thighs. He fell on his knees in the shallow water.

Gellert came closer, a satisfied smile on his lips: “First rule: always take advantage of your opponent’s weaknesses.” He lowered his wand.

Albus struggled around his restraints and adjusted the grip on his wand, barely concealed by his leg. Just a little bit closer… Come just a little closer… _There_. He dipped the tip in the water: “Incendio.”

The water in front of him started to boil and the steam rapidly raised so much that it was impossible to see a thing. Albus smiled when he heard Gellert curse and then produce a series of enchantments to blow away the wet clouds. It bought him enough time to murmur a counter-spell and get back on his feet. When the vapour dissipated, they were back facing each other. Gellert looked pleasantly surprised.

“You are right.” Said Albus, short breathed “Arrogance is your greatest weakness.”

Gellert shrugged and his blond curls caught the light in a marvellous way. _No_ , he wasn’t going to let it distract him.

“Should we call it a draw?”

“Are you saying you yield?”

Albus flicked his wrist and a series of purple jets of light moved towards Gellert like arrows. He avoided them all, jumping from one pebble to the other like he was dancing. He attacked back with an enchantment that looked like an orange semi-circle in mid-air. Albus had never seen something like that, nor he had ever heard the name of the spell. He was taken by surprise. The spell hit him like a whip and he tripped, falling at the side of the stream, against the slope. Gellert pressed him with non-verbal charms, one after the other. It was unfair how good he was with them. Albus was great, but Gellert – expelled from Durmstrang and two years younger – measured up easily. Even cornered and unable to get up, Albus matched him blow-for-blow. Gellert’s charms were exploding and precipitating all around him in weird combinations: stars, flowers, little moons, seashells. It was something Albus had fun with: transfigurating magical energy into something concrete. He wanted to distract him, taking him by surprise. This time, it didn’t work.

Gellert was nearer and nearer until he was hovering over Albus, his lean shape covering the sun.

“Do you yield, Dumbledore?” he asked again, and his last spell shattered loudly against Albus’ Shield Charm.

They stopped again, the tips of their wands almost touching. They were both breathless.

And for the first time in his life, Albus Dumbledore, winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, British Young Representative to the Wizengamot, Gold Medal for Ground-Breaking Contribution to the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo, Prefect and Head Boy of Gryffindor, cheated. He leaned forward, grabbed Gellert’s messy curls, dragged him down and kissed him.

Gellert let go a surprised moan as Albus pushed against his lips, deepening the kiss. It was sudden and passionate, a duel like the one they were fighting with wands. He leaned in, almost losing the focus, but when he felt Gellert’s right hand – the hand that usually held his wand – cupping his cheek, he drew back, and swiftly inverted their positions, pointing his wand to Gellert’s heart. He smirked: “Do you yield, Grindelwald?”

After a moment of astonishment, Gellert laughed, hands raised and neck bared, his curls like a golden crown around his head: “You cheating… You are no Gryffindor, Albus Dumbledore.”

Albus lowered his wand and picked Gellert’s up from the ground, where he had abandoned it to fondle him, and he gave it back to him. Then, he slumped beside the other boy, lifting himself up on a side, his right hand supporting his head.

“You won.” Said Gellert with a smile and his hand caught Albus’ free one, interlocking their fingers. “You deserve a prize. What could the great Albus Dumbledore desire?”

Albus’ lips twitched: “Please, don’t make me say something terribly sad or terribly cheesy.”

“Then don’t talk.” He answered, smugly.

They kissed again, more slowly this time, savouring the moment. Albus slipped a hand underneath Gellert’s damp shirt, feeling his soft skin, tracing imaginary patterns on his stomach with his fingers. He could feel him tremble, his breath short. He could feel Gellert’s fingernails scratching his nape, intertwining with his hair.

“How will it be?” Albus asked, when they parted to take a breath.

Gellert blinked, and that was how long it took him to understand what Albus meant: “Enthralling, riveting, we will never get tired of using it.” He brushed Albus’ locks back.

He looked positively sinful, all spread out on the grass, his shirt crumpled, his hair a glorious mess.

“I want us to share it, Albus. The Wand, the power, everything.” He went on, deadly serious. “We will find a way.” He anticipated his objections “There is magic that can help us, I’m sure of it, old magic.”

Albus nodded and leaned forward to brush their noses, one against the other, before taking Gellert’s lower lip between his teeth, biting him gently, sucking on it. It was intoxicating: Gellert’s taste, his smell, the power that he could concretely feel buzzing between them like electricity. He moved his hips to be more comfortable and their groins brushed against each other. They both moaned. Albus straddled Gellert’s hips, pressing against him. Their groans ended up being suffocated in their kisses. Soon enough they built up a rhythm, moving against each other, pushing and pressing and shifting. Albus was pretty sure he would have happily renounced to anything else in his life if he could have this in return: Gellert’s hand grasping his shirt, his breath against his mouth, their crazy, wonderful plans for the future. Everything else was collateral.

 “We should go somewhere more comfortable.” Mumbled Gellert, and Albus moved to kiss his chin, his jaw. “Side-along apparition.” He added, “Your room.”

Albus should have objected that probably both Ariana and Aberforth were home, that it wasn’t appropriate, but instead he tightened his grasp on Gellert and disapparated. They apparated again in Albus’ bedroom and, as soon as they recognised their whereabouts, Gellert took off his shirt and at the same time Albus casted a couple of spells that could not be broken by a simple Alohomora. When he finished up, he turned just to see Gellert stepping out of his trousers. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He also felt dizzy. It could have been the side-along apparition but for some reason he was quite sure that wasn’t the case.

Albus lifted his own shirt above his head and let it slump to the grown without saying a word. Gellert was looking at him with inscrutable eyes. He gulped, feeling warm: the blush was quickly spreading to his neck and ears, probably creating a fun match with his hair. He lifted the corner of his lip. Gellert smirked and came closer. His index fingers slipped below the hem of his trousers and Albus stumbled slightly when Gellert pulled him ahead. They kissed hungrily as they finished undressing each other. After a few seconds in which they tried to figure out how to move without parting, they managed to get to the bed, tripping on the clothes and the books scattered around, all muffled cackles and smacking kisses.

Albus pushed Gellert on the mattress, where he fell on his back, in quite an elegant fashion. He didn’t look so different from when he had sprawled on the grass, a few minutes before, except that the background was dark blue velvet which made his blond hair look more and more like gold. When Albus didn’t join him, Gellert lifted himself on his elbows, looking at him curiously. Albus was still standing: “I want to try something.” He mumbled, trying not to sound too nervous. He could feel his ears burn and his cheeks burn and is neck burn and his cleavage burn and his everything _burn_ , and he was fairly sure his complexion had reached ‘mature pomegranate’. His heart was thrumming in his chest.

Gellert was still looking at him with polite curiosity. When he saw that Albus wasn’t moving, he nodded in encouragement. His cheeks were quite rosy, too; he probably understood what was going to happen.

Albus kneeled.

He positioned his hands on Gellert’s knees and let go a shaky breath before nuzzling gently the inner part of his thigh, where the juncture between leg and hip was. He brushed his lips against the delicate skin and felt Gellert tensing. He stopped, evaluating how to… _engage_. He knew the mechanics, he knew how he was supposed to proceed; he just didn’t know if he would be any good at it. The thought made him blush even harder, if that was even possible. He almost missed Gellert’s fingers under his chin, making him lift his head to meet his gaze.

“You think too much.” He said, a ghost of a teasing smile on his lips.

Albus reacted instinctively, just to prove him wrong: he mouthed the base of his cock and he would have smirked victoriously if he could when he heard Gellert letting out a chocked sound. He drew up to the head, slowly, reverently, applying pressure with his tongue. Gellert was breathing fast, his elbows deeply sunk in the soft velvet, his nails scratching his own palms. Albus lingered, taking the time to savour the moment, then slid back down again. He tried not to think as he held Gellert’s hips in place, his thumbs pressing so strongly against his flesh that the skin became white. There was no technique in his ministrations, suddenly it was like all he knew – theoretically, so to speak – had disappeared from his mind.

The whole house seemed submerged in an unnatural silence. There was just Gellert and his hot skin and his strangled breaths and moans and the heart-breaking way in which he pronounced his name, losing syllables in gasps. _Touch me._ Albus wanted to say, but at the same time he had no intention to stop what he was doing. He enjoyed it, enjoyed the shifts of Gellert’s hips, despite his strong grip, he enjoyed the way he felt in his mouth, his taste, his smell. He felt like burning, like bursting, he just wanted to give and give and give: his skill, his power, his magic, his whole self. Gellert was trembling, his breath hitching. Albus moved one of his hands, spreading his fingers on Gellert’s stomach. He was so tense he could feel the muscles flexing. He knew he was near. Suddenly, Gellert’s hips shifted and he moved his weight to lean on his left side; he grasped Albus’ hand with his own, crushing his fingers.

“Up here.” Gellert babbled and Albus lifted his eyes, hesitating, then obliged.

As soon as he stopped what he was doing, Gellert brought their intertwined hands to his cock, modelling his fingers – Albus’ fingers – around it, then he started stroking. Albus leaned on, a knee on the mattress near Gellert’s thigh and suddenly they were kissing, wet and messy and filthy and Albus thought he could feel electricity – no, it was magic – cackling around them. Gellert pushed himself up and circled Albus’ waist with his free arm, tugging. Albus collapsed, half-straddling him. It was awkward and uncomfortable and Albus was sure they were going to slip from the edge of the bed where they were precariously perched. At some point he had no idea who was touching who, who was stroking and rubbing and fondling who and it was all too much.

“Albus– ” It sounded like a plea or a warning or both, but Albus’ mind only registered the need underneath and he gasped as he suddenly spilled all over their fingers, Gellert’s thighs, the velvet comforter. He closed his eyes, unable to maintain focus, he felt his grasp slackening, his skin tingle with oversensitivity. And Gellert was kissing him – on the lips, on his neck, wherever he could get –, his hips and hands moving frantically, his tongue pushing in his mouth and Albus drank his moans when he followed him, hot as blood.

They slipped to the ground at some point, limbs, flesh and covers altogether.

Albus’ ears were buzzing, he felt like floating. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. Gellert, a warm presence against his ribs – was that an elbow? –, mumbled something about not falling asleep.

At some point, when the stickiness and sweatiness and the general gross feeling became unbearable, they climbed back on the bed, picking they wands up from the tangled mass of sheets and clothes and hastily cleaned themselves.

Oh, and they probably fell asleep at some point. At least, Albus did.

 

The sun was setting outside. When he opened his eyes, Albus was lying on his back. He spared a glance to the window and he knew that soon he was bound to move, that Aberforth was going to bang on his door loudly, claiming dinner or attention or whatever and that Gellert would have to go back to his aunt’s house. He could hear a quill scratching on parchment. Gellert was writing something in his baroque handwriting, at his side. He turned his head towards him: he was lying on his stomach, gloriously naked, legs bent, lazily kicking the air, his weight resting on his elbows. He was juggling a quill between his middle and index fingers. It was something he did frequently, Albus noticed, a tic of some kind, or a way in which he expressed his everlasting energy.

“What are you doing?” asked Albus, groggily, his left arm outstretched towards him.

“Just scribbling some ideas.” He smiled and leaned forward, kissing the pulse point on his wrist. Albus blushed.

“For controlling the Hallows?”

Gellert hummed and shrugged: “And us.”

Albus nodded knowingly: “So not to turn against each other.”

He knew that they were connected, he knew that they were meant to do this together, but he also knew that they needed an assurance, they couldn’t throw themselves blindly in the quest. Too many things could happen. They would face extremely old magic. What if they were possessed? What if they were forced to hurt the other by something they couldn’t control?

Gellert kissed again his wrist, then smiled and curled his fingers on it, shifting so that he was able to drag Albus closer. He drew his arm nearer.

“What are you doing?”

Gellert smirked and didn’t answer. He rested the tip of the quill on his skin and he started drawing. He began tracing the first line, then the second, connecting it to one of the extremes in an acute angle. Slowly, the stylisation of the Cloak took shape. Albus’ breath got stuck in his throat. He felt a shiver running down his spine. Gellert looked intent while he closed the circle of the Stone and finished up with the thin line of the Elder Wand.

“Masters of Death.” He said, before pressing his lips on Albus’ palm, then on his wrist, then against the drawing, gazing up at him with those incredible eyes.

And not for the first time that day, Albus grasped a handful of his hair, dragged him in his direction and pressed his lips against Gellert’s. He tasted like ink and summer and dreams.

 

When the ink faded away, the pale ghost of the Deathly Hallows didn’t.

Gellert was far at that point and Albus couldn’t ask him if he did it, if he had enchanted it to leave his mark on him as he had done with the walls of Durmstrang.

He covered it with a disillusionment charm. He couldn’t bear to look at it.

The other scars, though, those could not be hidden. One, red and raw on the palm of his hand, the other, deep and eternal inside his heart.

 

*

 

In his office, a stormy September night of many years into Albus Dumbledore’s extremely long life, the old Headmaster covered up his wrinkly forearm, dragging the sleeve of his robe so to reach his knuckles.

He didn’t need a disillusionment charm this time.

It didn’t really hide what happened in the past, did it? It didn’t protect him from the memories he still longed for, fragments of a long-lost life – how could he? how could he still desire it? how didn’t the shame for this unnatural craving consume what was left of his soul yet?

Dumbledore bended his injured arm to caress Fawkes feathery head: “I lived a long life, my friend. And there was a time… there was a short span of time in which it was also a happy one.”

He smiled faintly, eyes sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles. He picked up the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone from the desk. The last Hallow, the Cloak, lied in a sixteen-year-old wizard’s trunk not far from there.

 

_I don’t really see why we should spend our time and energy in finding the Cloak before the Stone or even the Wand._

_The Stone would bring my parents back, so I wouldn’t be stuck here._

_I want us to share it, Albus. The Wand, the power, everything._

It was time to get ready, time to make preparations, so that Harry could face the inevitable. For the greater good. Always for the greater good.

Dumbledore walked to the threshold, thinking about the words he himself had carved on James and Lily’s tombstone. How prophetic they were. How fitting. He smiled and opened the door.

 

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death._


End file.
